


Padford's Pack

by MoochyMunchkin



Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Character Development, Gen, Original Character(s), Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-19 18:39:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8220952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoochyMunchkin/pseuds/MoochyMunchkin
Summary: From bad to worse; for many predators, the hell that was the year of the nighthowlers would leave an indelible mark on their memories, a bad taste in their muzzles. For some, like Byron Howltzer, it would quite literally destroy them. Being hit by Nighthowler serum was just the final blueberry shaped piece on top of the cake of awful that was his life in a city that used to barely tolerate him, and then flat out turned against him. And then he went savage. A year later, broken and alone, he must pick up the pieces of his ruined life any way he knows how.





	1. Tears in Blue

**Author's Note:**

> There's no overarching plot in mind with these OC's and their unique situations, just a few loose bunnies. Let's see where it goes. Not to say it's going to be a bucket of wangst, but I do delve into heavier, darker stuff occasionally. These are my own OC's so I've no excuses for making them boring, so let me know if I waffle. I'll be doing some standalone pieces as well as a few multi-parters (such as this one) and I really, truly hope it's fun to read.

***

Byron stared morosely down at his drink. He was holed up in the least comfortable seat in the pub, in the booth with the leaky window, nearest to the little cub’s rooms and furthest from the bar. The booth light didn’t work, the table wobbled and he wasn’t sure whether the stain was soda or whether a little one earlier in the day, when the pub daylighted as a diner, just hadn’t got up soon enough.

The waitress, a caribou named Penny, had been ignoring him all night. It made sense, but it didn’t make him feel any happier about it. With preds going savage all over Zootopia, he guessed she had a point, but it felt more like she was stabbing him in the back with it. He felt like the rest of the clientele, grazers mostly, saw him as one poorly stocked bag of peanuts away from chomping on them instead.

This was not a fun night to be Byron Howltzer. Had it been the day after, Friday night, then sure. Then he would’ve been drinking his weekly paycheck. Today, though, was Thursday night. And he was drinking his _last_ paycheck.

Not many timber wolves went into landscape gardening — when he’d started, he’d had to put up with a lot of snide remarks, like “oh, he’ll know where best to put bushes so he can hide behind ‘em. Chomp up the young’uns if you give ‘im an inch” and “I bet he knows how to dig a hole. Bet he knows where he dug ‘em, too”.

He’d _liked_ that job, dammit. Izzy, a lanky hare from Podunk, had stuck up for him to Clarissa the bovine super on more than one occasion. Archie, lazy bastard without an artistic bone in his ursine body always said hi of a morning… but then along came this preds-going-savage malarkey and the work had dried up like a swamp in the sahara; the ‘less reputable’ members of the team had mysteriously _all_ had their hours cut in an entirely random culling of dead weight. All of them preds, but no hard feelings, pawshake and here’s your pink slip.

“Ca-can I get you a-anything?” Penny asked, tiptoeing as near to Byron’s table as the doe dared.

“Yeah, bourbon.” He waved her away, not even looking at her. Penny _knew_ him, for Fenrir’s sake. He always paid his tab, always tipped, never said a cross word. And now this shit.

Penny eventually returned with a shot glass and a bottle of some gut-rot on a tray. She’d disappeared in back when she’d only needed to visit the bar. Nobody had covered for her, eh?

“Just… just leave the bottle,” Byron hissed, snatching the drink from the waitress’ trembling hooves. He upended the shot glass into his muzzle then poured himself another one and downed that too. When he paused in the slamming back, but still took a choking breath, he knew he was sobbing and not just reacting to the burning of the alcohol. Oh no, it was his heart that was burning, right now, not his throat.

“Fuck you all.” Byron spat, and threw the pink slip on the table as a tab down payment—he’d come back for it tomorrow, settle his fucking debts then—before picking up the bottle and stumbling out the door into the cool night air.

 

The trudge home through the city was a barrage of wan lights and wet weather. The Tundratown environmental modifier was on the fritz, which meant rain, rain, rain everywhere else, especially here so near the great wall, sandwiched between Downtown, Sahara square and the Rainforest districts. Then again, that’s where preds like him belonged, in the literal gutter, the hole between the nice, middle class areas, where the garbage collected; Pack, Trip and Hill streets, The ghetto in the glittering haven of Zootopia that more well-to-do folk didn’t speak about. The unpopular stops on the unwanted dead end appendix to the laughably named inner loop. Everybody knew the real loop skirted pred zones, with even the barely on the grid scum of Flockstreet pretending the main line stopped there.

Byron didn’t even bother, preferring to walk. Usually. And again, when he didn’t, he could normally get a ride. _Normally_ . Tonight the taxis ignored him—a few ignored him enough to plow right through the ample puddles as they passed. Sure, sure, they were just _super_ busy with the 90% of the population that didn’t have fangs, they didn’t have time to stop for a lone pred slogging through a torrential downpour. What few preydestrians there were avoided him, crossing the road ahead of his passage, sometimes dodging traffic rather than risk coming close.

 

By the time he made it to his apartment block, he was shivering, soaked to the bone and more bedraggled than any wolf had any need to ever be. And his key didn’t work.

“Oh c-come on, I’m f-freezing out here! O-open up!” He shook with cold, his paws almost too frozen to grip the tiny, rubber-hilted object. There was a distressed snapping noise, and suddenly his key was half the length and a lot less useful.

“Oh Great Maker… that’s all I—” he began, staring in the semi-darkness at what was left of his apartment key.

“Hey! Hey you!” called a voice from a first-floor window. Byron looked up. It was his landlord, a shifty sheep by the name of Milton. “Get outta here! You’re trespassing!”

“Hey Milton it’s me! Byron! I live in twelve-b! My key’s broke!” Byron called up.

“I don’t know anybody by that name. Clear off or I’m calling the ZPD.”

Byron blinked. “Milton, that’s not funny! Let me in! Come down here and let. Me. In!” Byron was worried now, and growing angry. He hammered on the doors, punctuating his words with thumps from his fist, clenched tightly around what was left of his key.

“Oh, oh it’s _you_ ,” spat Milton, giving a half-chuckle.

“What do you mean by that?” called Byron back, ears flattening against his head as everywhere curtains twitched. No lights were coming on, but he was _sure_ there were plenty of folks watching the show.

“You don’t live here no more, fleabag.”

“I… what?”

“Yeah, you’re three months late on your rent! You were evicted! All your shits in the yard, git it an’piss off!”

“What? I never! No, what? What!?” Byron turned, and realized that the reason the sad excuse for a lawn—actually nothing more than a patch of brown grass barely as wide as the porch—looked even sadder than usual was that it was full of junk. His junk. Not that his belongings had _been_ junk of course, not until they’d been unceremoniously dumped out into the rain, probably straight from the third floor where his apartment was. Pieces of what used to be his television—he’d scrimped and saved for months for that thing—littered the road. It was easy to see, obvioius, now he turned to look; they twinkled like crying tears or broken stars glittering in the streetlights. His life lay in tatters around his feet, smashed, broken and soaked through, rotting in the rain. Not a scrap was less than sodden, not a piece was whole.

“No, no, no, no! No! I… I…” Byron’s voice failed him. His stomach lurched, dropping through the planet’s mantle, meeting sadness and fire. “You motherfucking bastard! You cocksucking son of a bitch preyfuck! You utter scumfuck shitfuck—”

Milton laughed spitefully. “You’re repeating yourself! Clear off before—”

It was then that Byron made his first, and ultimately final, mistake. Milton ducked as a mostly-empty bottle of bourbon smashed against the building, inches from the ram’s face. With a triumphant smirk, Milton fingered his phone.

“Hello, ZPD? Yeah, I’d like to report a savage mammal. Yeah, he’s howlin’ and screamin’ and hollerin’ somethin’ fierce outside in the street. No, no, I’m inside but I’m really worried, he’s a killer. A wolf. Yeah, we’ll stay inside, please come quick.”

Byron’s snarling muzzle snapped shut, and a whimper fought to escape his lips. His ears flat against his head, the wolf backed away from the building. “No, man, don’t! Don’t do this… please! I’ve never done nuffin’ to you guys! Never! I—” he hiccuped “—I’m good! I p-pay my r-rent! I’m qu-quiet! I’m not a sa-ha-ha-ha-vaaage!” his words broke down into a pure howl of despair as he fell to his knees in the rain.

“Yeah you better fuck off! Get outta here!” Milton shouted scornfully.

Something hit the back of Byron’s neck. The asshole had thrown something at him. Exploratively, he put a paw to the back of his head as he scrambled up and out of throwing distance. His paw came away blue. That… that stung! Burned. Hot. Byron snarled again. Damned preyfucks. Nothing but meat for the grinder. Leave Byron outside in rain. Wet. Throw stuff at. No like. Want hurt. Want bite. Get sheep. Bite sheep! Rip sheep. Tear sheep. Eat sheep!

 

The world fell away from Byron as the rain fell around the wolf. Every drop danced in slow motion as he threw himself against the doors of the building, the water beating a staccato cadence in double time to the base drum of his body hitting the doors. Distantly he heard sirens, like long, mournful wolf howls that sang ears full with the thumping rhythmic song of ancestors he never knew he had. The sheep above him was screaming, now, not that he’d have understood the words had there been any. The doors were halfway buckled when the first dart sunk several inches into his back. It was swiftly joined by a host more as the rabid wolf turned in an instant, snarling, to pounce upon the heavily armour-plated porcine TUSK specialists.

He leaped, into darkness.

*** 

When asked later what it was like, he could never give a proper answer. It was a dream, or rather a nightmare, in which one was awake, but… not. Time flows forever, meandering past in a blur of meaningless chatter. An eternity was spent in his own hell; a darkened room, no bed—nor understanding of what one was—no contact with the outside world, even the wolf in him longed for a view of the sky. It was both halves on Byron that howled, broken, into the darkness until they darted him again and again just to shut him up. And through it all he was utterly, utterly alone.

 

One morning, things were different. Another day, whatever that meant in a world of fluorescent tubes and featureless walls, but it may as well have been another life. Byron found himself staring up at a ceiling. He remembered the words ‘tile’ and ‘light fixture’, rolled them around in his muzzle until they sort of made sense. They didn’t quite, and he found the ceiling closing in above him, the walls looming around him. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to close off the terror snapping at the edges of his barely regained sanity. He rolled over, trying to piece together memories of cold, hard floors and heavily suited creatures with pitchforks that fended him off before throwing slop he could barely tolerate and wished he couldn’t taste at him.

He utterly failed.

When they came, the sobs were teeth-wracking. They shook his entire body until he thought he would break. He didn’t think anything could stop the tears, but he was wrong. All it took was the quiet _whoosh_ of an automatic door and the light pit-pat of hind paws drawing nearer. He backed away instinctively, crying out in shock and then pain as he fell off the gurney and landed on his tail. Reflexively grabbing the blanket he’d been sleeping under he scooted into the corner of the room, covering himself with it, shaking.

“Mister Howltzer?”

He didn’t move. The owner of the voice, small and female, coughed and tried again.

“Byron? Can… can we talk? You can talk now, we finally got the dosages right for you.”

Byron heard the pawsteps draw nearer.

“N-no. Go away!”

“Byron,” repeated the voice, softly, patiently, as a paw ever so gently brushed his back. He recoiled. “I’m here to help you. My name is Heather, and nobody is going to hurt you, ever again.”

Reluctantly, Byron took the sheet off his head, freeing his ears that ever slowly left the back of his head, as he turned to look into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen.

Heather was a black and cream hare, mostly black all over with cream highlights under her head and inside her ears. She wasn’t a rabbit as he’d first thought. Now he looked at her, he could see she was too tall and lanky for a rabbit, her ears too prominent. The simple grey trousers she wore with a burgundy top accentuated her taut figure, offset by the brilliant white of her medical gown.

“Y-you won’t?”

“No. You’re safe now.” Heather backed up, slowly, before sitting on the bed. She patted the mattress beside her. “You want to hop up here?”

“W-why?”

“Well, you’ve been through a lot. I’d like, if you’ll let me, to examine you.”

“No! No more—!” Memories of nooses tight around his neck, of needles jabbed in indiscriminately made him flinch.

“Shh, it’s okay, Byron, I promise. Look at me, do I look like I could hurt you? It’s just a physical. No needles, no poking, I barely need to touch you. Just your vitals, okay?”

Byron took a deep, shuddering breath before, wreathed in his blanket like a protective ward, he stood up. “O-okay.”

“And whilst we’re doing that, I can tell you what happened, okay?”

“Am… am I in trouble?” he asked, his voice small, tail tucked between his legs.

Heather chuckled, a half-snort. “No, no. How much do you remember?” She hopped down and crossed the distance between them before guiding him by the elbow to the bed, easing him up onto it, bidding him lay down.

“N-not much. I was… I was… drinking.”

“Mm-hmm,” Heather said, busying herself with an ear thermometer. It beeped after a few seconds; she took it out and looked at the readout, nodding to herself. “I know.”

“A-and th-then I went savage.”

“Do you remember why?”

“I-I was… I was drinking…”

“You said, honey. Go on.” She busied herself taking his blood pressure, using a paw-pumped unit. It made sad little breathy squeaks as she pulpated the bulb.

“A-and th-then Milton—”

Heather cocked her head to one side, nose twitching, as she looked up from the dial. “Oh, your shyster of an ex-landlord.”

“Y-yeah, h-he threw something at me. I-it hit my neck. It stung. It… it burned?”

“That wasn’t Milton. We think, we’re not… well, it was a…” For the first time, Heather was unsure of her words. She took a breath, and started again, twirling the little hammer that she’d just used to gently tap his knees. “You didn’t go savage by yourself, honey. You had help. You were poisoned. All those mammals, going savage, was just a vicious, under-hooved plot to knock predators out of society.

“Midnicampum holicithias, a variety of crocus. Distantly related to saffron, of all things. The petals by themselves are a class three—the whole plant is a class three botanical, but it has its uses—but the stuff they used on you, it was something else.” Heather whistled through her teeth. “Got absorbed into your bloodstream from skin contact alone, even through the ruff of your neck. Tell me, did you lick your paws?” Now she loomed in, business like but matronly, as she took a good look into his eyes, up his nose and down his muzzle.

“I… dunno. Maybe?”

“From the concentration in your blood, given the amount of rain, you either got pelted with a repeat dose or you licked your paws trying to figure out what it was. Gave the TUSK guys quite a run for their money.”

Byron whimpered. “I remember tasting copper... did I..?”

“Bite ‘em? Naa. You tried, alright. Nicked your tongue at least, probably tore something with how wild you we—” Heather paused as Byron’s whimpering redoubled. “Look, honey, the point is, I have some good news, some… eh, bad news, and some more hopefully good news. So, what do you want first?”

Byron was eased into a sitting position, wrapping himself swiftly in his blanket again when he realized he was essentially naked from behind. He wasn’t sure what was worse, flashing the doctor or knowing somebody had dressed him, seen to him, for… however long it had been. “The… bad news?”

“You were under for the better part of a year.” Heather waited, patiently, whilst that sunk in.

“A-a year?” It had seemed long, interminable even, but a year? His friends—the few he had—probably thought he was dead. If they even cared.

“Uh huh. You’re one of the last, Byron. The others had…” Heather took a deep breath, one of many. “You’re not… a traditionalist?”

“Hmm?” Byron looked up from looking at his paws. A whole lost year?

“No… no pack?”

Byron winced. He looked down. “I don’t… I don’t get on well with other wolves.”

“Uh huh. Explains your teeth.”

Byron snapped his muzzle shut, and tried to put his paws anywhere but over his mouth. “What do you mean?”

“You show signs of… Byron, you… how do I say this? Do you get enough protein in your diet?”

“I don’t… understand.”

Heather looked him dead in the eyes. “I think you do.”

Byron mumbled something noncommittal, looking away.

“Fine. We’ll deal with _that_ little issue later. Anyhow, your belongings were a write-off. Almost nothing was salvageable. I’m sorry. Your electronics were toast, your clothes smelled like urine and the rest of your furniture was in pieces. If you had anything else of any value, unless it was _really_ well hidden, it’s long gone.”

Byron choked back a sob. He’d known all that, of course. Whoever had ransacked his apartment hadn’t done it for the contents, but purely for the fun of it. As revenge against imagined crimes committed by ancient ancestors millennia ago. And a year of being… essentially dead would put all of what was left squarely out of reach.

“The good news is this Milton fellow is in jail. He pulled the same shit with every pred renter in the block. He changed the bank account on the books in a secret, illegal homeowner’s association council meeting, then handily forgot to inform all non-prey tenants so he had an excuse to turf you all out at once. He changed the locks, kicked all your gear out, stole when he thought he could get away with to pawn off later and kept not only your rent money but your security deposits. Vicious little bastard. The city had to sue him, and a whole gaggle of nasty little buggers with the same plan, before half the predators in Zootopia ended up on the streets. Of course, by then you were _actually_ savage—I take it you weren’t when he called the ZPD? No? Of course you weren’t. Bastard—and were in no condition to take part in the class action lawsuit that followed. You are, however, entirely eligible for a slice of reparation. It’s not much, not when your life savings went up in smoke, but it should be enough to start again. Which is where I come in.”

Byron blinked. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m not sure we’ve been formally introduced,” said Heather, chuckling, as she held out a paw, dipping it demurely at the wrist. “Heather Padford, psychiatrist, at your service. I’m here to get you back on your paws.”

“I-is that the other bit of good news?” Byron finally asked, rocking slightly from the impact of her words.

“Oh, no, no. I… I did say that not _all_ your stuff was ruined, right?”

“Uh huh?”

“Well I saved this little guy. I thought you might want him back, now you’re on speaking terms again.” Out of a pocket from her gown, low down past her knees, the hare pulled a threadbare stuffed toy, missing most of one ear and all of one eye. Its tail was ratty and the felt was all but worn through in several places, but never had Byron in his life been so happy to see Edgar. There was a rhythmic thumping from behind him that it took several seconds for the timberwolf to realize was his tail, wagging furiously, as he held the stuffed toy close to him.

“There now, that’s what I like to see, hon! Okay, I’ve got to sign some papers before it’s official, alright? And also get you some clothes—they won’t be the most fashionable, but there was at least an outpouring of support for displaced preds after the whole sheep plot was discovered—and then we can get out of here.”

Byron’s tail stopped thumping. He swallowed. “B-but I have nowhere to go!” he whined plaintively.

Heather grinned, nose twitching fiercely. “If you’ll let me, I might just be able to do something about that.” 

***


	2. Dawn

***

“Y-you might be able to help me get somewhere to live?” Byron slowly straightened up, his ears perking. “You can do that?”

“I kind of have connections. Wait here, Honey. I’ll be right back.”

Byron watched Heather go, then sighed heavily, sitting back down on the gurney. He held his stuffed toy close, nuzzling Edgar. Many folk wouldn’t understand a grown wolf with a cuddly toy, but other wolves would. Especially other wolves like… like him. He looked up as the door opened again, and a mobile pile of clothing entered through it.

“Dig in, find something you like, anything. Take a change or two, it’ll take you a while to get back on your paws.” Heather dumped the pile of clothes on the floor in a heap, then gestured towards it. “Go on.”

“Could you… do you mind?” Byron twirled a digit.

“You haven’t got anything I haven’t seen before, Honey, but as you wish.” Heather turned around, facing the door. She spoke up as Byron searched through the selection for something halfway decent. “Here’s how it’ll work, alright? You get yourself cleaned up, we can head there first if you want, this place has decent showers, and then I’ll get you officially discharged, and we’re free mammals. Then you and me take a little car ride, and you either take what I’m offering or we part ways.”

“Don’t I get to decide?”

“This isn’t some pick’n’mix stall, Byron. You take it or leave it… but I think you’ll take it. I’m sure you’ll like the place.”

Byron dug through the pile, pulling on pieces randomly as they caught his eye. Nervous, he just wanted to return to some semblance of normality. Within a short space of time, he was — to his eyes at least — suitably attired. “Where—” the timberwolf began, but Heather turned back around as she heard him straight, and put a paw to his nose.

“Uh uh. It’ll be a surprise. So, shower first, right? You’ve got your final selection picked out?”

“C-can I have these?” He held out his choices, but Heather just shook her head.

“Hmm, you’ll need a few more of  _ these _ , and that’s just… no, not with your colouring, you’ll have this one instead. And what were you thinking? Are you colorblind? Huh, we never thought to check… right. Paws out. Hold. I’ll get you a bag, but first, to the showers!”

She gently pushed him out the door and frog-marched him down the hallway until they came to a door marked with a happy little raincloud. He marched in and began disrobing. There was a noise behind him, and he covered himself with a hastily snatched towel from a rack.

“Wh-what a-are you d-doing..?” Byron stammered as the door behind him swung open again and Heather walked in and sat down in a plastic chair.

“Hospital rules, Byron. No unaccompanied patients. And as  _ this _ room doesn’t have cameras, I’m supervising. Don’t worry, I won’t actually come in the shower with you. Unless you ask nicely. Want me to scrub your back?”

Byron’s ears almost caught fire. “N-no that’s quite fine!”

He shucked his clothes then stepped into the cubicle. After a few moments of fiddling, he got the water running. With a shriek and some heavy breathing, he withstood the initial blast before the temperature stabilized, then set about cleaning himself up.

The everyday nature of a shower helped dispel the last of the miasma of what had been, he knew now, a year of… of madness. The water running down his face, warm, soothed him. It ran through his fur, which he soaped up liberally. It took him a while, full body showers were a rarity in Zootopia, but Heather didn’t seem to be complaining. Some time later, the last of the soap disappeared down the drain and the full-body fur-dryer unit took the rest of the water. It also left him looking… somewhat unkempt.

“Uh, Heather?”

“Yes, Hon?” She looked up from a magazine to see a walking ball of fluff exit the shower. She covered her muzzle with a paw, biting her tongue to not laugh. “Let me guess, you could do with a brush?”

“I-if you could.”

“Sit.” Heather got up and pointed at her chair. Byron sat in it. “Stay still, I’ve got a brush I can use. I came prepared. Warren Guide, many years. Left me with a few bad habits and plenty of good ones.”

“Bad habits?” Byron asked, as Heather began tugging her brush through his fur. He winced as the tangles were finally seen to, and old fur shed was finally removed.

“A liking for pranks and a mean set of dirty jokes. I also sing in the shower.”

“That… that doesn’t sound like a bad habit.”

“You haven’t heard me sing.”

Gently but methodically, Heather worked her way through his fur until she had nothing left to deal with but his tail. Finishing that, she straightened up, grinning, as it took Byron several long moments to come back down to Zootopia. He whimpered slightly as he looked at the pile of fluff left around his chair; shedding was an embarrassing part of being a canine, and this… this was mortifying. He hadn’t had so much shed in front of somebody else since he’d been a pup. It was worse than being shorn naked from a surgery, in a way.

“You’ll need to give yourself a proper grooming later, but for now, we’ll say done.” Heather methodically picked up most of the fluff and dumped it into a nearby biohazard bin. A quick sweep later and most of it was dealt with.

“Thank you,” Byron said, blinking and swaying, as he pulled on his clothes. The t-shirt was backwards. Heather tutted and eased his arms back through again, pulling it around.

“You’re welcome. Now sit down again.” Heather turned around, and presented Byron with a wheeled device that had been stationed in one corner, folded up.

“What?”

Heather gestured. “Wheelchair.”

“Wheelchair?”

“Yes, wheelchair. You. Sit. Hospital policy.”

“Oh.”

Byron sat in the ancient wheelchair, then was wheeled through corridor after corridor until the complex really  _ did _ start to look like a hospital, and less like an insane asylum, or a maximum security prison. After a brief stop at a desk, at which Heather had a few low-key conversations with various doctors, nurses and orderlies before signing her name on several dense collections of paper, one of which had Byron’s photo attached to it, the pair were at last permitted to head for the front doors.

“We’ll be glad to see the last of you off, Hon, though I can’t say it hasn’t been a… a powerful, memorable year. I know such terrible things were done to you, but it has been so wonderful to see families broken apart come back… come back together.” Heather paused, in speech as well as motion, then put a paw down on his shoulder. “Why were you… always alone?” She asked, her voice soft and unsure.

“I don’t have anyone,” replied Byron, eventually. “Sometimes us timberwolves, we just… go it alone.”

“Wolves aren’t supposed to be alone, Byron.”

“I’ve got Edgar,” he replied, trying to fake a smile.

“We tried to find your family, whilst you were… out, but…”

“You won’t.”

“We found some mammals we  _ think _ are relatives, but they said they weren’t. We couldn’t force anybody to come, of course, but...”

“It doesn’t matter.” Byron sighed. “I didn’t miss them before, why miss them now?” He pushed the door open, then stepped through into piercing sunlight. He wiped his paw against his eyes, shielding them from the glare.

“Want to tell me what happened?” the hare asked, following him through the doors.

“Why should anything have happened?” he asked. “Let’s just not and say we did.”

Heather stared at the timberwolf for a few seconds, then took off and wrapped up her gown in her arms, calling over her shoulder for him. “Alright. For now. Come on, follow me. My car is in the garage.”

 

The adjacent building was a multi-storey car park. Most mammals used public transport, and for poorer preds like Byron, it wasn’t even so simple as going to a bank to get a loan for something as pricey as a private motorvehicle, so he was a bit reluctant to follow.

“It’s a beater, but it gets the job done,” said Heather, returning to take his paw in hers and pull him onwards. She chatted in fits and spurts as they strode through the darkened space “I travel, all over Zootopia, and my schedule isn’t always train friendly. Get in.”

She led the way to an ancient wooden-structured monstrosity that looked more like a truck that had had unnatural congress with a boat than a car. It held a faded echo of luxury and what was left of a diesel engine. Somehow when it ran, it purred like a kitten. An oversize, obese kitten, but a kitten nonetheless.

After putting on what were clearly aftermarket seatbelts, Heather pulled out of the lot and rolled onto the streets of Zootopia.

 

***

 

Byron looked out the window as the car rolled through traffic.

“Penny for them,” said Heather, smiling.

Byron huffed. “I can’t… what am I going to do with myself?”

“Whatever you want, Hon. This is Zootopia. Where anyone can be anything, remember?”

“I tried that,” the timberwolf grumbled. “Look where it got me.”

“So what, you’re going to roll over and die?”

“No, of course not!” Byron crossed his paws and slouched, staring out the window again. “What kind of shrink are you?”

Heather smiled. “You’d be surprised. You’ve got strength,” the hare added, after a while, “even if you don’t realize it yourself. You just need a little help to bring it out. Chin up, there’s some people I’d like you to meet.”

 

Byron followed Heather in through the door to the coffee shop, sniffing experimentally. The place was a greasy spoon if ever he’d seen one. The traps hadn’t been emptied in too long, the coffee machine filter was clogged—and the heater set too high to boot—and whoever was in the kitchen was straight up murdering the tofu.

“Heather, little one. What is it you bring Alexei this time...?” The enormous brown bear behind the counter crossed his paws and was silent for a moment. The he continued. “Is it finally cash to pay tab with?”

“I’m good for my tab, Alexei. And why the huge… pause?”

Alexei threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Always with the same joke! But joke not pay tab. Pay up by end of week, da?”

“Da, da, you know me.” Heather waved the bear off nonchalantly, despite the fact he was easily ten times her size.

“Yes, Alexei know you very well. Alexei sees you have another stray, too.” The bear’s eyes narrowed.

“Yeah, Alexei, honey-bear, about that.”

“No.”

“You haven’t even heard—”

“No. Am putting paw down. Not another one.”

“Oh, come on, Alexei, dearest, I promise—”

“Wait, you want… you want  _ me _ to live  _ here _ ? No way.”

The hare and the bear stopped arguing and turned to Byron. Alexei crossed his paws again.

“And why would you not, little pup? Is first class room. First class company. Alexei insist.”

“I was about to tell you, Alexei, Byron here is… without employment.”

“Cannot even  _ pay  _ for room and board? Pfah!”

“And you’re not going to ask why?”

Alexei stopped his ranting for a moment, then stared at the timberwolf. Then he slowly nodded. “Ah, now is clear. Now Alexei see. Pup has been savage. Bad business, dirty business. Why you not say this first thing, silly bunny? Alexei will give home. Trial period only! Best behaviour! No loud music when Alexei sleeping. You steal, Alexei find out? Nobody find  _ you _ . Da?”

“Room and board is paid for, Byron, if you accept my offer. For a few months, at least.”

“Alexei offer!” The bear roared, slamming his paws down on the counter. “Bunny just pay bills. On time!” The bear leaned over the counter, jabbing a huge claw at Heather.

“Warren Guide’s Promise,” replied Heather, crossing her paws across her chest.

“Done!” roared Alexei, pulling out a large, amber-filled bottle and filling three shot glasses with it. His own markedly larger than the other two. He downed his own in one gulp, then sighed, happily. “Ah, is good to do business with you, Heather my friend. Come, Byron, Alexei show you to room. Alexei let you settle in, then Alexei show you ropes.” Alexei lifted a corner section of the bar up, the turned and headed into the back.

“Wait, what, ropes?” Byron turned around to see Heather slamming her own empty shot glass down on the counter.

“Congratulations, you’re also gainfully employed.”

“I… I didn’t…”

Heather smirked. “You want to tell the big guy no?”

Byron closed his eyes. “Okay, you know what? Fine. If I don’t like it, I’ll just… leave. I’ve done it before.”

Heather wrinkled her nose. “Nobody’s keeping you here. Drink up.”

“Drink?”

“It’s rude not to. You don’t want to be rude, do you?”

Byron hastily swallowed the fiery drink, then followed Heather in the back and up the stairs, coughing, his eyes streaming.

 

***

 

Byron lay on his bed in his room, his clothes dumped on the floor, as he looked up at his ceiling, listening to the building ruckus in the diner-cum-bar where he now worked.

Okay, he guessed things could’ve gone worse. After he’d accepted the job, Alexei had given him a poorly fitting uniform and a mop that had seen better days and had instructed him to start cleaning. And clean he had, for hours, whilst the bear and Heather hammered out some sort of deal. Eventually, Heather had stood up, called him over, then sternly told him ‘make me proud’ and had kissed him on the forehead. And then she’d swept out of the diner like a force of nature, leaving him standing there with his mouth open and tail tucked neatly between his legs.

 

“Do not be worrying, little pup. Is Heather. You will get used to her.”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“She is case worker. You belong to her now. Get rest, next shift will begin after midnight.”

“Midnight?”

Alexei had paused, head tilted. “Are wolf, no?”

“Yes?”

“Then… will be wanting night shift, yes?”

“I… I guess, but...”

“Alexei tell you what. You get night shift, is busy but simple. Then late morning shift, is quiet. And then will clean up before evening shift, da?”

“But—”

“And can sleep in midday.”

“But—”

“Good. Now, go.”

 

And he had been dismissed, just like that. He closed his eyes, unsure if he’d ever actually  _ get _ to sleep. And worried for what he’d see if he did.

 

***

 

Frankie’s whiskers twitched as the soft whimpering echoed through her ears again. She sat up, hissing. Then she sighed, and followed the sounds. The vent in her room was loose, mostly because she’d loosened it. Dropping it softly the last few feet to her bed, she snaked up into it and pit-patted her lithe way along the duct.

The whimpering was louder now, as Frankie turned a corner and saw the culprit, lying in his bed. She twitched her nose, then methodically loosened the bolts from the inside like she’d taught herself over many long months. Dropping down into the room, she straightened, then took a good long look at the occupant. He was a wolf, a timberwolf if she wasn’t wrong. Lying half-curled up under a thin blanket, he was grasping at nothing with his forepaws, and every time they failed to connect with… whatever it was he was looking for, he gave a little hopeless whimper.

Frankie snorted, then weaseled her way closer — some would say pinemartened closer, seeing as that was her species, but pinemartened didn’t have the same ring to it — nose twitching again. She almost tripped in the semi-darkness on something soft on the floor. Stooping, she lifted a dog-eared cuddly toy almost as large as she was before her.

“Heh, looking for this are you, puppy? Fine, I guess I can help.”

Frankie hoisted the toy up on the bed, then nudged it closer until the grasping paws found purchase. Almost immediately, the whimpering stopped. A soft thumpa-thumpa-thumpa wafted warm air over her body. The oversized puppy was wagging his tail.

“Yeah, I guess you’re welcome. Just hope you’re house-trained.”

 

Frankie left via the door, leaping up silently and turning the handle. On the landing, she saw Alexei stomping up the stairs.

“What is wrong, Frankie?” The bear called softly.

“Him? Just a bad dream.” The small coffee-coloured pine marten threw a thumb over her shoulder. Alexei paused, staring down at the mustelid for a few moments. “What?” She finally asked.

The bear smiled. “Ah, you know? Now is quiet, Alexei  _ can _ hear it.”

“What?”

“Your heart. It does beat.”

“Piss off, rug-butt.”

Alexei chuckled. “Listen, pup is—”

“New, I get it.”

“No, pup has, ah, only just woken up. After a year of being… away.”

Frankie blinked. “He was savage?”

“Da. So be nice.”

The pine marten scratched the back of her head. Then she huffed. “I’ll cut him a break. But he pulls his own weight!” She shook a paw angrily.

“Da, Alexei knows all pull own weight. And some pull more, yes?”

“ _ Da _ . I’ll get him up to snuff.”

“Good. Then wake him.” The bear paused again, his head tilted. “Soon.”

“Ugh, I hate cubsitting.”

“Alexei knows. Alexei is grateful. Alexei is going now. Do not be stealing pup’s things.”

“As if. He hasn’t got anything worth stealing anyhow.”

“Yes, that is problem. Be nice, little one.”

“Bite me.” Frankie huffed, turned around, then scampered back into the room before pushing the door closed.

 

A few moments later, she was sat on the bed, watching the timberwolf sleep. He looked so helpless as he lay curled up in a tight little ball, clutching his stuffed toy like his life depended on it.

“What did they do to you, huh?”

Frankie twisted herself into a comfortable knot, then closed her eyes for a few minutes. Well, he was safe now. She’d wake him soon.


	3. Shift Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning brings with it a new clarity, a new sense of purpose... and for Frankie, a new sense of understanding. And quite probably more than a few sleepless nights.

***

“Beer.”

Byron pulled down a pint glass like he’d been shown. Smaller mammals had different measures — thimbles for the shrews, shots for the larger rats and smaller mustelids, and so on — but most of the patrons of Shears were right smack dab in the middle of the size range for zootopian mammals and took the industry standard called a pint.

He tilted the glass like he’d been shown, pulling the tap gently so as not to generate too much of a head, then eased it upright. He’d been skittish since he got plopped behind the bar, and had been a burr right up Frankie’s backside for the first hour or so, but slowly had got the hang of the draw. At first he’d been set to just getting empty glasses and bottles, but then had progressed to being able to pop the tab off the mixers. Eventually he’d even managed to pull a pint without turning it into a glassful of foam. It wasn’t that he was clumsy, but that the patrons were giving him the collective stinkeye. And it was turning the wolf into a nervous wreck. All he had to do this time would be to punch in the right code on the til, take the cash and—

“Put ‘er on me tab, mate,” said the goat, levelly. Byron eyed Frankie, trying his best to hide the motion; the mustelid gave a surreptitious nod without looking up from where she was mopping the other end of the bar, so the timberwolf ignored the till and forked out a squared notebook from underneath it.

“Have you, uh, got any ID?” Byron asked, after nervously flicking through several pages hopelessly..

Frankie plunged her muzzle deep into her paw. Then she hopped over before the goat could even start to bleat. “He’s new, Archie, so don’t you give ‘im no grief! How’s he supposed to know who you are? Yeah, I know what you’re gonna say, so don’t!” The pine marten wagged a paw at the goat, leaving the old timer cowed, but she still snatched the pad from the wolf, flicking through pages almost as long as she was tall before making a quiet little mark next to a name then replacing the pad back underneath the till.

“Sorry, sir, I—” Byron began, but Frankie quickly chased him off.

“Go make yourself useful, pup. Get another keg from the cellar. We’ll be out of Boarish Old Peculiar soon enough.”

Byron scattered.

***

Frankie found him later, sniffling under the stairs in the cupboard. He’d brought up a keg here and there, had refilled the chillers with ciders and mixers, had even dealt with customers, but eventually had withdrawn. The mustelid hadn’t noticed the wolf had been missing until she realized she’d been mammaling the til all alone for a near half hour.

“Alright. What the fuck are you doing, buttsniffer?” Frankie’s hind paw tapped on the polished wooden floor impatiently. The pine marten expected a bellowing, snarling battle, given what she knew of wolven nature, but her combative stance wilted when the wolf instead began sobbing and hiccuping.

“I… can’t… and… hate me… but… want…”

Frankie sighed, shaking her head. Looking left and right, she quietly padded forwards, closing the door behind her. In the semi darkness, she awkwardly patted the wolf on the side of his head.

“There, uh, there. You’re alright now.” A lie, but it was what you said, wasn’t it, when confronted with a hysterical mammal? Frankie squeaked when Byron’s arms closed around her and a snotty muzzle hooked over her shoulder. She tried for a few moments to escape his grasp, but quickly gave up and just patted the distraught wolf until the hiccuping sobs turned to quieter sniffles. Eventually she managed to free herself, whereupon she grabbed an oversized bundle of paper from the godawful giant rolls they used as toilet paper, and held it to Byron’s nose.

“Blow,” she ordered. Byron complied. Frankie rolled her eyes as she saw to the grown mammal’s tears like he was some kind of pup. When she’d cleaned him up and made him somewhat more presentable, she took his muzzle in her diminutive paws and looked him in the eyes. “Right, what is this about?”

“Th-that w-was… I w-was use-useless!” Byron wailed. “Th-they a-all h-hate me!”

“What are you, retar— no, don’t answer that. Look, you did good, okay? Have you never—?”

“What?”

“What did you used to do? Before you, you know?”

“I… I was a gardener,” Byron replied, confused.

“Really, a pred tending vegetables?”

“F-flowers. I, uh, made gardens.”

“Fucking flowers. Of course you did. Never dealt with surly drunks, have you? No? Well, they suck. Especially grazer drunks. Yeah, that’s right, they’re scumfucks. I can see that smile. Come on, show a bit more of it. Tell me they’re useless scumfucks. Go on.”

“Th-they’re scum f-fucks,” said Byron, a nervous titter escaping his maw.

“There, isn’t that better? Now, never let those grazers smell your fear. They’ll stomp all over you. You’re the barkeep, what you say goes, alright?”

“Yes miss.”

“Don’t… don’t. Just call me Frankie, okay?”

“Yes, Frankie.” Byron’s tail wagged slightly.

“Better. Now, clean yourself up, then get out your mop and bucket and clean up shop. Last orders are over. Anyone left inside, kick ‘em out, got it?”

“G-got it.”

“Then get yourself to bed. I’ll, uh…” Frankie screwed her eyes up, twitching her nose. “I’ll be up to check on you after I’ve finished wrapping things up, okay?”

“Okay.”

Frankie didn’t unscrew her muzzle until the wolf had left his hidey hole. Then she took a deep breath, and followed him out.

***

Soft music played somewhere as Frankie strode through the large, darkened room. The bed was unnaturally high for her, which merely told her it was _not_ her bed. The room was oddly dark, too, and long.

“Is pretty little one, da?” called Alexei, from somewhere far away, as Frankie found herself bounding up above the bars that surrounded what was now obviously a crib. She landed on the edge and peered down. Beneath the little mobile — it turned, twinkling and tinkling, generating the soft music that floated throughout the room — slept a small dark figure swaddled in a comforter.

“He’s, uh, very pretty,” said Frankie indistinctly, as she leaned closer for a better look at whatever cub lay beneath the covers. Suddenly, she found herself tumbling down, down, down into the bed, landing softly but bouncing head over tails until she came to a graceless stop next to the baby. Cautiously, Frankie leaned in to get a closer look at the sleeping creature as it fussed, woken from sleep. It tossed and turned, cooing and gurgling. Pulling back the covers and flinging them out of the oversized crib, she gasped in shock as she spied the otherwise peacefully sleeping Byron as he started to more energetically fuss and kick, legs splayed wide around a comically thick diaper bedecked in moons and stars as it sagged between his crotch, an oversized dummy in his mouth.

“What the..?” Frankie mumbled, jumping back as the oversized puppy turned over and ensnared her with its paws.

“Ma-ma,” the pup said around a ridiculously large binkie, pulling her closer, reaching around and around with long, spindly arms.

“No, no, I don’t… get back!” Frankie fought and wriggled until she got herself out of the tight embrace, backing up until her tail popped through the bars. In moments, she found herself holding the giant puppy at arms length in an awkward position; Byron was several times larger than she was, and seemingly made of playdough. The mobile up above stopped turning with an ominous _clunk_ , and suddenly the dummy was spat out, beaning her on the head.

“Ma-ma!” said the puppified Byron again, somehow rising up and engulfing her even as she…

As she…

“Argh!” cried Frankie, sitting up in bed, blinking in the semi-darkness, breathing heavily. As the blood stopped thumping in her ears, she realized she could hear a whimpering echoing into her room from the one adjacent. And she knew it wouldn’t stop until she dealt with it.

“Maker give me strength,” she huffed, weaseling out of bed and shivering in the chill night air.

Skittering through the ducts again, not even bothering with stealth, Frankie dropped down into the wolf’s den, located the once more fallen cuddly toy and hefted it back up into his arms. The whimpering and calling stopped immediately, the wolf’s tail made a few meagre wags and the great big huge baby rolled over, snorted, then went back to deep sleep, snoring loud enough to wake the dead.

“So help me, a Maker-be-damned overgrown puppy is screwing with my traitorous maternal instincts…” Frankie grumbled, scowling. It was going to be a long night.

***

Byron was late for the breakfast shift, but Frankie had made an executive decision to keep him out from under her paws all morning and would wake him — literally, she expected to have to wake him up, and quite possibly dress the silly bastard too — for the midday shift instead. He could present himself after that for the evening and graveyard shift again. Just because he was… having ‘issues’, didn’t mean he got to loaf around. It did mean she needed answers, which is why the three of them had — temporarily, during the lull after breakfast but before the lunch rush — closed up shop for a little conference around one corner of the bar..

“Right, spill it, long ears. And right now.” Frankie glared at Heather, baring her teeth.

“Frankie, take easy, da? This is Heather,” Alexei began, but the mustelid was having none of it. She scowled, and raked the bear with her molten gaze before settling it back onto the black bunny.

The hare was nonplussed. “You’ll have to try a lot harder than that to get me to discuss private patient details with you, Frankie.”

“I would’ve said so too, if picnic basket here hadn’t dropped the pup at my door. I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to train him up for the laughable excuse for a job you’ve cooked up, or... or change his diapers half the time. What is _wrong_ with him?” Frankie gestured from the bear to the ceiling, roughly in the direction of where faint snores were coming from Byron’s room.

“Diapers?” scoffed the bear.

“Don’t ask!” hissed Frankie, baring her teeth at the ursine and throwing her paws at the ceiling. Alexei leaned forwards to berate the pine marten for her attitude, but Heather took the bear’s paw in her own. The larger mammal dwarfed the hare, but Heather was like a rock, and the sea of black bear broke around it.

“Shh, let me handle this, okay Alexei?”

Slowly, like the changing of seasons, the thunderclouds on Alexei’s muzzle retreated. “Da,” he said, finally. “Heather tell. Explain mess cyka blyat grazer left pup in. Then maybe Frankie understand why wolf is so out of sorts working in ex-grazer cafe, no?”

“Explain.” Heather glared, but her gaze softened when the black hare took a picture out of a folder. The picture had a shot of Edgar in it, lying forlorn in a puddle surrounded by piles of what at first glance appeared to be garbage. Since the toy was Edgar, that meant the wreckage was… Byron’s life.

“Do you know why he has that stuffed toy?” Heather asked.

Frankie shook her head. “N-no, I… I thought he might be, uh…” She put a paw to her head and twirled a furry finger around in circles. “I mean he seems nice enough, but he just… he just _falls apart_ under pressure.”

Heather chuckled. “He’s not—” she too waggled a finger around the base of one ear “—but that’s not to say he doesn’t have… problems. Rather unique ones, in some ways, but sadly I’ve seen the exact same many times, especially here in Zootopia. Do you know how wolves live?”

“In packs?”

“Yes. In packs.” Heather looked so mortified at her otherwise innocuous admission that Frankie almost took a step back. “That’s his pack: Edgar, the cuddly wolf toy. I’m still working with him to fix that, and I will be for a long time. He was savage, feral, for a year. And when he woke up, his only companion was a stuffed toy. Everyone else that ram darted had _somebody_ . Whether it was a polar bear and his best friend — albeit victim — a moose, or a wonderful otter family with wonderful kids… everyone had somebody. Everybody except Byron. When he woke up, he was alone, and he wasn’t surprised. And he said he didn’t care. He clammed up the moment I asked him about family. That’s not _healthy_ for a wolf. So I took him in. I don’t think he even realizes it himself, not yet, not consciously. But somewhere under there, deep in his hind brain, the wheels are turning.”

“You mean… _you_? You’re his pack?”

“Not quite. I mean yes, I am a part of it. A big part of it. But actually… all of _you_ are his everyday pack.” Heather Padford grinned a most un-bunnylike grin, all teeth and lolling tongue before continuing. “It’s not quite as simple as it could be, but Alexei and I are the alphas. We’re not a mated pair, of course.” The hare flickered her long eyelashes at the bear. He picked her up and kissed her paw before putting her back down again. A practiced move, made from a place of deep friendship, but without the passion of actual lovers.

Alexei chuckled, deep booming laughs that rattled plates and cups, “You are plenty bunny for me, Mishka, but perhaps Alexei is too much for you to ‘bear’, no?”

Heather snorted, and punched the bear in the arm. He chuckled again as he rubbed the spot, hissing in pain.

“So?” Frankie asked, looking between the two, and openly and loudly ignoring them acting like idiots.

“So, our friend Byron is the outsider. Let me put it this way; right now, if you had kits, or if Alfonse even, had piglets, they’d be higher ranked in that wolf’s head than Byron himself is.”

“Pack is like totem poll,” added Alexei. “Only bottom of this totem pole, unlike real totem pole, is not strong base. Is for putting in mud. Pup is in deep mud, up to neck, maybe moreso.” Alexei’s paw moved from neck level, to level with his ears. “He needs you to pull him out.” Alexei put a paw on the pine marten’s shoulder, his weight shifting the bar stool she sat on several inches to the left.

“What Alexei here is trying to say, Frankie, is that you’re the Beta. You’re number two. Or in naval terms, number one. First officer in flagship this place. Alexei is unapproachable, for now, but _you_ … you’re his direct superior and the mammal he will turn to for reassurance and advice. It’s… not what I intended, but it’s what we’re stuck with.”

“So… what? I gotta wipe his nose and backside until he gets better?”

“If that what it takes, yes.” Heather put her forepaws on her hips and stared the pine marten down. Finally, Frankie wilted.

“I draw the line at the diapers, but I’ll help,” she muttered, finally. Heather snorted, shaking her head.

“None of our victims showed _that_ kind of regression, so I don’t think things will get _that_ bad, Frankie. If they do, gimme a call of course, but if you’re just there for him, if you just listen to his worries and reassure him that he _can_ get up when he stumbles, I think you’ll begin to see the real Byron Howltzer before you know it.”

“I hope the real Byron is worth it,” Frankie grumbled, crossing her paws and twitching her nose.

Heather smiled again, flicking her ears up. “He is. They all are. That’s why I do what I do.”

***

Frankie threw the door open and marched right into Byron’s room.

“Up! Get up, Byron, get yourself dressed! No lollygagging! No, not that, put on yesterday’s clothes. You’re cleaning the John’s because you missed morning shift. And I will _not_ be doing two lots of laundry tonight.”

“Sorry! Sorry! I’ll… I’m up! I’m up!” spluttered the wolf as he rolled out of his comfy warm bed into the decidedly chillier room. He was halfway dressed before he realised that the pine marten hadn’t even turned around, much less left the room whilst he’d been in his birthday suit. He threw on the clothes he’d had on the previous day then fought an urge to salute. Instead his tail wagged, and wouldn’t stop. He stooped down and fought the urge to lick at the pine marten’s muzzle. Mostly because she was so small, he was worried she’d fall over.

“Right.” Frankie looked him right in the eyes, then inspected his muzzle for presentability. “Teeth, brush your fur, then report for duty. Special John cleaning mop and bucket are in the janitor’s closet outside the facilities. Don’t worry about, uh, liquids, as it were. They’re waterproofed, it was simpler to hippo-proof the joint than parcel out the attention. Not that you won’t wish we couldn’t set fire to the place and build it again. But that’s what you get for missing the breakfast rush. Then get yourself _properly_ cleaned up, because you’re going to be helping Skeeter in the kitchen for lunch and we have health codes we will _not_ be violating. Clear?”

“Um, yes miss! Frankie! Miss!”

“Good job last night, by the way,” Frankie added, as the wolf bolted out the door. “First time and all.  You’ll get there in the end.”

“Uh, thank you!”

Frankie let out the breath she’d been holding. Hard-ass was her natural temperament, sure, but to apply that to build up somebody who’d fallen so far that her sass would be an attack rather than a defence was entirely new. But sure, she’d get there in the end too. She hefted Edgar back up onto the bed from the floor where the toy had once again fallen, then smoothed down the covers. Just this once she’d help the pup keep his den clean, she told herself. Snotty noses was her limit, though.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Padford's Pack is starting to take shape, to explain itself. I hope you're enjoying being along for the ride. This is mostly light hearted, I'll even try to be funny, but there might be some more serious scenes here and there. Nothing too wangsty. Let me know what you think, I'm enjoying writing them regardless.


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